Requests
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. Sherlock hits a rough patch from a case gone awry. The people closest to him step in to help him, sending requests for the only help he needs.


_**A/N: **I just want to apologise for not having written anything in ages, and also for not updating The Admirer. It's long overdue, I know. It's been a tricky couple of weeks and they almost killed my ability to even have feels - which is no easy feat. Anyway, the point is, I'm slowly getting back on my feet. I wrote this after being inspired by 'What We Want' by The Naked And Famous. Such a glorious song. Anyway, I hope you'll find something in here to enjoy. x_

* * *

**Requests**

The request had been made in so few words. Yet, its weight sank itself into Molly's chest, almost crushing her ribs.

_Will you help him, please? You're the only one who can. _

If she had not had that soft spot for Mycroft, Molly would have instantly turned the request down. She had had enough of Sherlock's dramatic shenanigans. Drugs for cases, girlfriends for break-ins, murders for friends, what was one more dramatic turn?

However, she did know that Sherlock never liked to fail. In all of his theatrics, he had always _succeeded_. It was when they failed, and people died under his watch, that the detective really broke. His brother knew this, and so did she.

Tonight, he would be mourning. There would be whisky, and agitated melodies on the violin as he mourned the two lives he could not save this morning. He had gotten the culprit. Of course he had. He simply had not done it in time.

As Molly clutched her little overnight bag, she made her way gently up the steps to his flat. From the clarity of the sound of his violin, she could tell his door was not shut. When she appeared in his doorway, his back was to her as he continued playing frustratedly, the only hint of the sentiment underneath. Gently, she tapped on the wooden doorframe, knowing his sharp ears would pick it out easily.

True enough, two raps of her knuckles against the wood and he turned swiftly, eyes wide and glassy. He had on a mask of tight restraint, his mouth a compact line of zero emotion. One corner of Molly's mouth lifted slightly, smiling tentatively at him. So much of her wondered why she had said yes to Mycroft.

The detective put his violin down and strode toward her until they were standing face to face. His blank eyes scanned her up and down, as though ascertaining her presence in his flat.

"Did my brother send you?" he asked stoically. There was a small twitch in his lip, and Molly noticed.  
"Yes," she answered, hitching the strap of her overnight bag on her shoulder.  
"What did he say?" Sherlock asked, his voice unexpectedly softening.  
"He said you needed me," Molly replied plainly. His left index finger twitched. It did not escape Molly either.  
"What could I possibly need from you?" his voice was sharp, lifting his chin as though to prove his point.  
"I don't know," she said with a shrug, "But I brought my toothbrush."

Molly moved past him and knew to make for the stairs that led her to John's old room. That was where she always slept when she was on Baker Street duty. At the fifth step, a firm hand restrained her, causing her to stop in her tracks. When she did, the hand released its hold and Molly was able to turn around. The detective who normally towered above her was now face to face with her.

Yet, though his face was before hers, his gaze avoided her own. It seemed his mask was beginning to crack. It always did around her. Had he not learnt it yet?

"I—" he began, pausing as his eyes darted around, "I have some wine…"  
"Should you really be drinking?" she asked gently.  
"I don't really know," he muttered, his hand moving to cover his eyes.

That was her cue. When the all-knowing detective _did not know_, that was when she knew. With her heart beating freely and her smile firmly in place, she wrapped both arms around his neck and held him close to her. She held him so tightly she was sure he could feel her heartbeat in his own chest. Within seconds, his arms returned the gesture, circling her waist as he crushed her to himself.

"Let's not have the wine," she murmured gently into his ear. She then pressed her warm lips onto the side of his face. He relaxed, instantly, and she could feel it. Smiling against his skin, she kissed him once more. This time, she pressed her mouth longer against the skin just below his ear, making sure he felt all the warmth that radiated from her.

"No, let's not," he replied, shutting his eyes as he savoured the comfort against his skin.  
"Get some sleep," she said, giving him another gentle peck on the cheek, "We can do something nice tomorrow,"

She pulled away from him and smiled right at him, trying to coax his gaze back to meet hers. Molly succeeded as his face lifted and his eyes returned to looking at her. The magnetism of her smile lifted the corners of his own lips as the tension in the room, his body and his mind gradually ebbed away. Eventually, they untangled and resumed their separate positions on the first and fifth steps.

"Would you…like some dinner?" he asked, suddenly.  
"Sherlock, it's 2.30 am in the morning," Molly said with a small laugh.  
"Oh…right,"  
"Are _you_ hungry?" she asked him back.  
"I don't really know," he said yet again.

With a shake of her head and a knowing smile on her face, Molly took him by the hand and led him back down to the kitchen. She knew he had probably not eaten for days. As Molly pottered about in his kitchen and whipped up some canned soup and toast, Sherlock was sat at his dining table, texting away intently.

_She's here. Thank you. — SH_  
_I'm not the one you should thank. — MH_

"What are you so busy with all of a sudden?" she asked cheerfully as she stirred his soup that was beginning to boil.  
"Hmm, nothing." he murmured, returning his phone to his pocket and returning to look at her. Their gazes caught, and they exchanged quiet smiles.

When all was done and he had eaten his fill, they both did the washing up, side by side in silence.

"Molly," he said, suddenly.  
"Hmm?" she answered as she dried a pot with a tea towel.  
"Thank you,"  
"You're welcome,"  
"And so are you."  
"I'm sorry?" she asked, puzzled.

The detective took a sharp breath and took the pot and tea towel from her hands. He then wrapped his arms firmly around her, hugging her tight.

"You are welcome, always welcome here, Molly," he said.

He could feel her smile against his shirt, whilst her hands moved to reciprocate his embrace.

"That's nice to know," she said.  
"You don't have to come only when there's an emergency, or when my brother sends you," he continued.  
"I appreciate that, Sherlock, I really do," she answered.  
"Good."  
"Good."

They parted again but this time, their fingers lingered, tentatively entwined in each other's.

"So, now that you're here," Sherlock said.  
"Mmhmm?" she responded, enjoying her hands in his.  
"Just…stay?" he asked.  
"Well, I am…that's what the bag is for…"  
"No, no I mean—"

Molly frowned and looked up at him as he too frowned at the sudden difficulty in selecting the correct words to say.

Suddenly, Molly's phone buzzed from an incoming message and she reached into her pocket for it.

"Oh," she breathed, as she read the contents.

_He means to say, if you would like stay with him indefinitely. — MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes when he realised who it was, thereby deducing its contents.

"Why does he always have to meddle?" the detective muttered in a sort of fierce embarrassment.

There was a laugh that escaped from Molly as she moved to peck the detective on the cheek.

"I'd love to," she replied, smiling. "Now, let's finish up here and then we can get to bed."

**END**


End file.
